


i've built my life around you

by kermiethefrog



Series: landslide will bring it down [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Dysmorphic Disorder, Bottom Sam Winchester, Brief Dean Winchester/OFC - Freeform, Brief Sam Winchester/OMC, Eating Disorders, Feminization, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Top Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-03 22:35:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14579088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kermiethefrog/pseuds/kermiethefrog
Summary: His mouth is dry. He wants to tell Sam he loves him. He wants to tell Sam he’s been in love with him forever, since his baby brother’s heart started beating. He wants to tell Sam he thinks about devouring him whole, even now, when he’s hardly a mouthful.He says nothing, and Sam wastes away into forest mist and house fire smoke.





	i've built my life around you

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to create a dual narrative in this series where each character struggles with selective importance, deriving more meaning from some actions than others purely because it fits into the way they already perceive themselves. So certain scenes, especially the ones that overlap, reveal that what might be seen as unjustly cruel from one perspective is actually misinterpreted. 
> 
> That was a PARTICULARLY pretentious way of saying: this one hurts less!!! Or it will, probably, I think.

_May 1983_

 

Dean sees Sammy wrapped up in Mommy’s arms the day after Mommy goes to the hospital to bring Sammy into the world. He’s red-faced and tiny and has a tuft of hair on his forehead and he can’t open his eyes quite right but Daddy hovers while Dean holds him for the first time.

 

“This is your little brother, Dean,” Daddy says.

 

Dean looks down at Sammy’s face. He’s beautiful.

 

_Mine,_ Dean thinks. _Mine._

\---

 

_June 1996_

 

Three beers and an equal amount of shots of whiskey sit in his nearly-empty stomach. Bar’s a bust but he gets free drinks, so it’s not for nothing — he went for a fuck and comes home empty-handed, either way. Sam’s sitting pretty on the couch, and that’s how it starts, really. His baby brother turned thirteen a little over a month ago and suddenly Dean can’t stop seeing all the parts in him that are pretty; innocent wide eyes, plush lower lip, the stretch of smooth baby fat that peeks out when Sammy kitten stretches.

 

Sam smiles at him like he’s hung the stars in the sky, like he’s never been happier to see someone before — he smiles like that every time Dean walks into the room. Dreamy and so sweet, and Dean’s hard in an instant. He wants to feed Sam cock until it’s the only taste in his mouth.

 

“Hiya, Dean,” Sammy says, mouth popping open in the softest little _oh_ face Dean’s ever seen. Drinks were a bad decision. He wants to kiss his little brother so his legs amble him over until Sam’s hands are pressing against his stomach to keep him from toppling onto the couch. Sam lets out the brightest baby girl giggle and Dean’s mouth dries up.

 

No filter. Like maybe the last shot burned away the sieve of his mind, and all that remains is a little brother-shaped hole Dean wants to ease his dick into.

 

“Sammy,” he says, and Sam licks his lips and gazes up at him. Dean presses his palm against the side of Sam’s throat and thinks about how easy it would be to choke him. “You ever been kissed before?”

 

Sam shakes his head, eyes notched open innocent and wide; the fingers on Dean’s stomach tighten into little fists. Sam’s head reaches first-blowjob high, hovering where he looks at Dean through his lashes. He could press the front of his jeans against Sam’s soft cheek. His thumb runs over the curve of it and presses in just to see how the head of his cock might look indenting the baby boy fat that lives there.

 

“You wanna learn how?”

 

Sam nods, a shy and sweet little thing. Dean watches him lick his lips, press his thighs together, squirm where he’s kneeling on the couch. Not even been kissed yet, and already the hottest fucking thing Dean’s ever held in his hands.

 

His baby brother has always been a fast learner.

\---

 

_November 1996_

 

It’s the guilt afterwards that consumes him. The guilt of what he’s done. The guilt of knowing he can’t stop. The guilt of not wanting to.

 

“Dad’s gonna wake up,” Sam hushes, birdshy soft, into his jaw. Even so, he has arms wrapped tight around his neck. Like first-pick cheerleaders in janitor closets, except Sammy doesn’t know how hot it is, just that his little body can’t help doing it. 

 

Sam’s baby brother body responds to everything like he was fucking born to take big brother dick. 

 

“Don’t want Dad to see what a little slut you are?” Dean whispers back. He can taste sandpaper and stale beer on his tongue. He always needs liquid courage for his mind to agree with what his dick wants so bad.

 

“Oh, oh, oh,” Sammy moans. His ass grinds over Dean’s cock like it’s trying to milk it, like if he keeps him deep enough, baby boy can get pregnant. Dean can feel Sam trying to press kisses into his jaw but can only manage the loll of his tongue against scrape-scratch stubble.

 

“What are you, baby?” Dean prompts.

 

Sam comes undone. Barely feels like anything on his lap and yet Dean’s never felt heavier with the anchor locked to his heart. “I’m your little slut, De.”

 

Childhood nickname falling from thirteen-year-old lips. It mars something dark in Dean’s soul, and he comes so hard he buries his cry with a mouthful of Sam’s shoulder.

\---

 

_January 1997_

 

He’s all Dean ever thinks about, the first and last thought of his day and every second in between.

 

He steals kisses in the backseat of Baby while Dad hustles pool in the roadside bar, warming their bodies with the sweat-press of his chest against his baby brother’s. Sam makes little noises when he’s being kissed, like he can’t fucking help it, and Dean is gone, so far gone he doesn’t know what to do.

 

There’s an aching hunger in his stomach. He makes Sam feed him until it’s sated.

 

“We can’t,” Sam whines with hands pressed against Dean’s shoulders.

 

Dean mouths around a pretty-in-pink peaked nipple. Sam moans and arches up, knees knocking together and pressing against Dean’s dick line. He knows all the places to make Sammy feel good, now, molds that tiny body to the shape of Dean’s filthy tongue.

 

“How come?” he asks. When he grinds his hips into Sam’s thigh, Sammy pushes back, giving Dean something to fuck up against.

 

“Someone’ll see —” Sam starts, and Dean’s fingers find the other sensitive nub of baby girl tits. Sam half-bites back a pretty little moan and lets the rest of it out like an airy Dean-composed song. Dean wants to die with Sam riding his dick if it means that’s the last sound he gets to hear. “Someone’ll see and Dad’ll get mad at me.”

 

“Nobody’ll see,” Dean says around his teardrop mouthful, “Dad won’t know.”

 

Sam’s never been this small underneath him before, shoulder blades curling into the leather seats. His fingers tighten into fists in the fabric Dean’s jacket, head turned away virgin-shy.

 

Dean pauses. “Hey, baby,” he says, and the word coaxes Sam’s pretty boy eyes out, fluttering doe-eyed open. “Why do you think Dad’ll get mad at you, Sammy?”

 

“It’s not right, isn’t it?” Sam asks, nervous, watery-eyed. Dean’s heart cracks clean, split down the center. “Brothers aren’t s’posed to touch each other like this.”

 

Dean’s mouth goes dry. Body stills, fingers twitch. Sam shifts below him, a willow sprout bending at the breeze, at the silence that stretches on between them. 

 

Somewhere outside in the distance, a chorus of rough, alcohol-loosened laughter rings out.

 

“Am I… Bad?” Sam asks, words whispered baby-soft and scared. “My friend — my friend says sluts are bad and they’re gonna go to Hell, but —”

 

Sam looks thirteen-years-old, now. Not just the pretty kind, the kind that makes him hard with just the bite of Sam’s teeth into his lower lip when he’s concentrating hard. The kind that he protects during hunts. The kind he makes Mac-n-Cheese for. Not baby brother — younger brother. His responsibility to watch over.

 

“No, Sammy,” Dean says. He kisses Sam’s hair, his temple. Reaches a hand up to run his thumb over the hollow of Sam’s cheek, even if Sam parts his lips like he’s anticipating it edging into his mouth. “No, baby boy, you’re good. You’re good, I promise.”

 

Sam tries to chase Dean’s lips with his own. He presses them together kid-soft and sweet, again and again. 

 

“Even if I wanna be your slut?” 

 

“Yeah,” Dean breathes out, and Sam’s arms wrap around his neck like a baby girl on prom night, “even then, baby.”

 

Dean fucks him in the backseat. He swallows up every piece of darkness that Sam thinks lives inside that small chest and makes his baby brother shake and tremble. He lets it all sit in his stomach, a constant haunt — if he cannot exhume it from his soul, he will gladly bear all the guilt of it and leave Sammy damned spot-free.

 

Cannot. Doesn’t. Want differs from capability, and Dean thinks he might’ve been able to keep Sam safe if he was just a little bit better. 

 

He still makes Sam come twice before Dad stumbles out of the bar.

\---

 

_June 1997_

 

Sam turns fourteen, and they almost lose him.

 

They’re on a hunt near Chicago. Sam gets sideswept by a ghoul, slams against a staircase railing and goes down. Dean rushes down the steps to his ragdoll baby lying prone at the bottom; it’s one fury-fueled swing, and the ghoul’s head rolls away. They rush to the hospital and Dean hunches over in the backseat — Sam lies limp and unresponsive in his arms.

 

It’s only hours later that his chest eases enough for tears to trickle-trail down his cheeks, wiped away by the rough swipe of his palm. Dean looks at his baby brother in the hospital bed and says _no more monsters_. Dean looks at his baby brother and thinks about Sam’s teary eyes wondering about the damnation of his soul. Dean looks at his baby brother and pushes his knuckles into his own jawline, but only because he wants to punch himself until his skull caves in and he can’t. 

 

“I’m gonna keep you safe, Sammy,” Dean whispers. “Even from me.”

 

Sam’s monitors beep a steady response.

\---

 

_December 1997_

 

Dean fucks the girls he meets in town because he can’t fuck his pretty-faced little brother.

 

He has them on his lap, pawing at his shirt, making crude noises that get his dick hard, either way. He closes his eyes and dips his fingertips into soft flesh and thinks about Sammy, his sweet whines, the way he giggled with Dean’s beard-scratch against his birdbone throat. He thinks about how tight Sammy was for his big brother, how he arched so perfectly, how small, needy fingers felt digging into broad muscle when baby boy was over-sensitive and wrought.

 

Dean imagines Sam pressing his ear against the wall separating their rooms, hard cock in his hand and fingers in his ass, trying to fill up as full as Dean made him. He imagines his name on Sam’s lips and comes so hard, he leaves bruises the shape of his hands on round hips.

 

But Sam makes friends. He spends more time outside of their shitty little motel rooms and abandoned squats. He does well in school. Dean watches him read over handwritten little kid letters from the friends of towns past, and wonders if it was his oppressive smother that kept Sam too-close. 

 

Not a collar and chain around Sam’s neck, not really. Dean’s feelings have always felt more like a noose.

\---

 

_June 1998_

 

Sam is changing. Dean’s not sure when it started.

 

Sometimes, Sam will turn, shirt catching across his chest, and Dean’s heart will tighten at the notches of his ribcage down his sides. 

 

Sam doesn’t eat in front of him anymore. Dean can’t remember the last time he’s seen Sam put anything in his mouth — _feed him_ , his body offers up, _feed him what you know fills him up. Make him take it._ His mouth goes dry, and he swallows down shame like he thinks it’ll soothe the desert-sand grate.

 

“I think Sam might be sick,” Dean says. “I think he might need help.”

 

“Eyes up, Dean,” Dad shoots back, “Sam knows how to get himself to a hospital if he needs it. Focus on the job.”

 

_You don’t get it_ , he wants to say. _I think Sam’s hurting himself._

 

“Yes, sir,” he says instead. Dean clean-cuts three vamp heads within the next twenty minutes, and he sees Sammy’s haunted stare in their glassy eyes.

\---

 

_November 1998_

 

Peanut butter and banana sandwich, crusts cut off. Sammy’s favorite at one point. _Empire Strikes Back_ in the VCR, also Sam’s favorite.

 

Dean delivering the peace offering to his baby brother. He was Sam’s favorite, too. He doesn’t know if he still is, but he’s never stopped wanting to be. Dean lets Sam loose from his stifling hold and that baby boy grows up behind his back; he doesn’t know how much Sam still needs him, anymore. 

 

Sam refuses the peanut butter sandwich. Dean doesn’t have the heart in him to ask about the movie. The coward in him tries to flee, but he thinks about the way Sam used to look at him like he hung all the stars in the sky, so he asks Sam to let him in.

 

Baby brother does. Like the sky opening up, God ray breaking through and shining down on the part of his heart that always longs for the feeling of Sam’s skin under his hands. They itch, and Dean allows himself this one thing, just to keep him lasting until his next breath. Sam’s cheekbone is sharp against the curve of his palm.

 

_Mine,_ Dean thinks, and his throat closes up. _Mine._

 

“I’m fine, Dean,” Sam says. Flippant, a little irritated. His face thins every day, his body more bones than anything else. When he looks away, Dean can see how hollowed out he is. Everything in him hurts. He doesn’t know when this started. Doesn’t know how to approach it. 

 

Delicate fingertips trace over his face, and Dean wants to drown. He’s drunk. He’s drunk and he wishes he had no filter so he couldn’t feel the guilt swallow him before he can get his lips on Sam’s again, just one last time.

 

“I’m okay. I promise, Dean,” his baby brother insists. Soft and sweet and reassuring like there’s no gap between them, no unbridgeable cavern. Sam’s hand is gentle on his forearm. It weighs nothing, like the skeleton boy he loves, and when Sam smiles, it’s the warmest little thing he could ever hold in his hand.

 

Beautiful baby boy; Dean’s body has never forgotten what it was like to hold him so tight it felt like they were the same person. The want carves out his stomach until all he does is itch. 

 

“Okay,” Dean answers. His mouth is dry. He wants to tell Sam he loves him. He wants to tell Sam he’s been in love with him forever, since his baby brother’s heart started beating. He wants to tell Sam he thinks about devouring him whole, even now, when he’s hardly a mouthful.

 

He says nothing, and Sam wastes away into forest mist and house fire smoke.

\---

 

_January 1999_

 

Sam disappears for twenty minutes. Noah follows after him not even five minutes after he leaves. Dean counts the heartbeat tic in his clenched jaw and watches as Joseph Fiennes confesses his love for Gwyneth Paltrow under moonlight and thinks about Sam’s red lips and pink-flushed chest and soft thighs.

 

He plays Black Sabbath loud enough to drown out Sam’s sweet-pitched laughter in the backseat on the way to drop off Jen and her brother. She kisses him and he doesn’t have it in him to kiss back; he presses into it with his molars grinding and she says her goodnights.

 

Sam settles into the passenger seat and turns the music down until it’s just a whisper. Dean turns it back up.

 

“My head hurts,” Sam complains. His breath smells like dick and his voice comes out blowjob-wrecked. Dean was the first person to ever make him sound that way, and Dean’s never going to be able to again.

 

His mouth is dry. Dean drags his palm down his jaw and slams it against the steering wheel; in the corner of his eyes, Sam flinches. It looks like a rattle in his baby brother’s wavering frame.

 

“You’re such an asshole, Dean,” Sam bites out. Voice trembles. 

 

Dean hitches the volume up a notch higher. He thinks he hears Sam say _fuck you_. He thinks he hears Sam say _I hate you_. He pretends he hears nothing over the crash and pull of the speakers blaring _can you help me occupy my brain_.

 

Even so, Sam falls asleep against the window. Dean will never tell him, but when he carries him inside and puts him to bed, it feels like setting Sam down into a coffin. He’s burned bones that weighed more than his brother does.

 

Dean’s anchored, black mass soul weighs more than enough for the both of them.

\---

 

_July 1999_

 

Sam’s not at the room by the time Dean comes back from fixing up the air conditioner in the motel office for a few extra days stay, and flashfire fear shoots up his throat.

 

He paces. He paces because there’s nothing else he can do except cycle through every worst case that could happen to Sam. Shifter torturing him of his last breath. Were turning him, biting into flesh and watching him burn. Demon raping his insides, smothering his baby brother into a whisper against his ribcage. Sam, still standing on matchstick legs by the pure force of his stubborn will, knocked over by the wind and lost to him forever.

 

The door opens, and Sam enters, disheveled and fawn-legged.

 

Panic looks like anger in his body; Dean knows it does, but he can’t curb it when it comes out. “Where the hell were you?” he barks out. 

 

Sam flinches away from him first, stands tall and stares dead-eyed second. “None of your business,” he shoots back.

 

He has red marks over his throat and down his wrists and around his thighs; he has cum-sheen across the highest, innermost parts of them, where his shorts are rolled up two times too high. His lips are lollipop red and swollen, chewed up, and beard burn runs across his jawline.

 

Those parts belong to Dean. All of it, since Sam was born — jealousy is so strong in Dean that he doesn’t know what to do with his hands for a moment. He feels anger tighten around his throat, and he thinks he wants to scream — they _were_ his, once. But they weren’t his to take.

 

“Take a shower,” Dean finally settles on; envy vibrates so loudly in his ears that he can’t even look at the barebones boy he wants without drowning in guilt and shame, “you smell like a fucking whore.”

 

The shower runs for thirty minutes before Dean knocks on the door. Another five passes before Dean forces the door unlocked, and Sammy is unconscious in the bathtub, arms spread out and knees curved to the side.

 

Dean’s heart stops, a paralyzing flashfreeze of fear. But there’s no blood down Sam’s arms, no cuts where his mind imagines there should be; Sam’s body is still warm to the touch and he’s still breathing. Dean shakes him, and Sam doesn’t wake up.

 

He shakes him again, rougher, and Sam breathes like he’s coming back to life again. He cries little kid tears and huffs out ragged exhales and holds onto Dean’s shower-soaked biceps.

 

“I can’t get out,” he hitch-whines, quiet and pitiful, and Dean swaddles him up in a towel and carries him to bed. Sam looks like he’s dying. Thin and wavering and sweet-faced and pretty, so fucking beautiful — Dean thinks about all the men who would want to use him, turn him out until he’s nothing but a valley to stake a claim in.

 

“How come you don’t fuck me anymore?” Baby brother voice. Like Sam is made of nothing but a pinch of clay.

 

_I want to,_ Dean thinks. _God, I want to._ He presses the heels of his palms into his eyelids as his mouth goes dry.

 

“You need to eat, Sammy,” Dean answers instead. His voice feels like tar, like all the ugliness in his chest has built up too high. “You’re sick.”

 

_Me, too_ , Dean thinks. Sam hitches in breaths beside him and Dean takes each sound as a needlepoint splinter into his chest. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispers. Wet and tight. Dean bites back his shame. “I’m so sorry, Dean, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to make you hate me. I wouldn’t have — if I knew, I would’ve been better. I’m sorry.”

 

“Sammy.” He turns, hands spreading out over Sam’s shoulders at the sight of dew-dropped lashline. _Wrong, it’s all wrong,_ he thinks, and curves his shoulder onto the mattress, just to be closer, like it’ll bridge this valley between them. “Sammy, I don’t hate you, how could I?”

 

“I was bad. I knew I was — there’s always been something evil in me, Dean, and I knew I was ruining you, I knew — but I wanted you so much, I couldn’t stop,” Sam confesses. “And you made me feel like — like it was okay, like I could be good if you still wanted me back, but then you — you stopped — and I kept getting bigger and bigger, I wasn’t small anymore, and I tried so hard to be small —”

 

“Shit, Sammy,” Dean says. His hands find Sam’s face and cradles him there between his palms. “It was never about how small you were. You’re my little brother. I was hurting you — I’m supposed to protect you, and I was hurting you, the only reason why you thought you were bad was because I was _making_ you —”

 

“I wanted it,” Sam insists again. Dean doesn’t know how to believe it, not after all this time. “I want it. I miss it. I miss you, I miss knowing I made you feel good.”

 

Dean closes his eyes. Sam’s fingers are delicate where they run over his forehead, the bridge of his nose, the corners of his eyes. Dean reaches a hand up to still them. 

 

“Believe me, Dean,” Sam urges. Dean’s hand closes around Sam’s wrist. It’s so thin he thinks it’ll snap under the weight of his fingers. Sam curls against his side. “It made me feel safe. I just want to feel safe again.”

 

It is not a quick fix; it is not a cleansing that lasts one teary-eyed confession. He doesn’t know how to believe it but his soul budges. Moves an inch for the boy he loves, because he says it with so much conviction that Dean can’t hear anything else, and Dean, for the first time since he tasted baby brother tongue in his mouth, can breathe a little bit easier.

 

He pulls Sam onto his chest, arm wrapped tight around his thin shoulders, and Sam tries to push away.

 

“I’m too heavy,” Sam insists. Dean holds onto him.

 

“You aren’t. Sammy, you aren’t, you don’t even weigh anything.” 

 

Sam whimpers. Dean’s not sure if it’s because Sam is too weak to fight, but he rests his cheek on Dean’s shoulder and curls in.

 

“Look, De,” Sammy whispers into his throat. Dean looks, but Sam can’t bear to. Just pinches his skin underneath his navel and whimpers. “Look. It’s — it’s disgusting.”

 

“It’s just skin, Sam,” Dean says. His heart feels like it’s being dragged against the gravel of his throat. “It’s just skin.”

 

Sam sobs into the crook of his neck, and Dean holds him big-brother tight and doesn’t let go.

\---

 

_October 1999_

 

“I need help,” Sam whispers into his throat. It’s been eighty-seven days since Dean’s held anything other than his baby brother in his arms. It’s been eighty-seven days since Dean carried his smoke-and-ash love away from near-death. Dean hasn’t been able to let go. “I think — I think I’m sick.”

 

Dean’s mouth is dry, and his throat tightens around his heart. “Yeah,” he rasps back, “okay, Sammy. Let’s get you help.” 

 

\---

 

_January 2000_

 

It’s been two and a half years since the last time he kissed Sam, and it’s a little like coming home.

 

Sam is still brittle-thin, chest made of balsa wood and always on the edge of snapping. Dean’s fingers stutter over where skin is stretched taut over bone and he knows Sam can sense his hesitation. It’s still a fresh wound, but they continue to stitch it closed with the steadiness of their still-beating hearts.

 

“Can you cut it for me?” Sam whispers like it’s choked out of him. Dean looks up from where he’s making a sandwich for dinner, and his eyes catch Sam’s before they skitter away from him. Brave through all the fear clenched tight in his baby boy frame. 

 

“Fourths?” Dean asks, and Sam’s fingers find the hem of his shirt.

 

Pause. Deep inhale. Sam’s forehead rests against his shoulder, and Dean can just barely hear his answer. “... Sixteenths?” he offers, voice small.

 

He does. Cuts off the crust, cuts it in half, then again, and again, and again. Tiny squares of white bread and cheese and deli turkey slices. Sam eats a third of them buried into the arm of the couch and feeds the rest into Dean’s open mouth, fingers lingering long enough for Dean to nip at the tips and bubble pretty little giggles in Sammy’s throat.

 

“Thanks, Dean,” Sam says quietly. He’s still brittle-thin, but his eyes are bright and soft, his face less gaunt. He had let Dean sit in on the last therapy phone appointment, pink-cheeked and stutter-nervous, and Dean can never smother the pride that overflows from his heart at every fearful truth that Sam releases in almost-whispers.

 

Dean kisses the top of Sam’s head. Temple, next, then his cheekbone. It swarms out of him, the desire that has sat patiently in his stomach for years, and it outpours with every sweetspun sigh that sits on Sam’s tongue when Dean’s lips meet warm skin. 

 

Sam tilts his head to the side and Dean kisses him, and the feeling that slots into his soul is so consuming that Dean feels helpless. It burns him up like a forest fire, and Sam incites sprouts of new growth in the ashes that coat his lungs.

 

If he was put on the earth for anything but Sam, Dean doesn’t ever want to know.

 

When he pulls away, Sam’s low-lidded and dreamy, looking at him like he’s hung all the stars in the sky.

\---

 

_May 2000_

 

“Baby girl’s pussy still so tight for me, huh, Sammy?” Dean says, and Sam comes undone.

 

Sam takes his hand and presses his palm against the flat of his stomach. There, underneath warm flesh and deep in his guts, Dean can feel the bulge of his cock, buried like it’s never left. His eyes shutter close and Sam kisses his watery lashlines.

 

“I love you,” Sam whispers. The weight of his body bearing down on Dean’s hips feels like a tether, keeping him steady and secure. Dean’s lungs shake as he weeps. “I love you so much.”

 

“I love you,” Dean says back, voice hoarse where his throat closes around it. He holds Sam in his arms and it feels like coming back to life again, hurts just the same. He wants to devour Sam whole — he wants to let Sam crawl into his ribcage and live there permanently, make his home in Dean’s chest so he’ll never lose him again.

 

Sam’s hands cradling his jaw feel newly-teenager small and Dean’s overflowing heart feels almost-legal overwhelmed. 

 

“What are you, baby?” Dean whispers. No filter. Sam’s burned it all away with the flashfire heat of his trembling heart.

 

“I’m your little slut, De,” Sam moans. Childhood nickname falling from seventeen-year-old lips. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever going to get tired of it.

 

“Mine,” Dean says, and Sam sits pretty where Dean’s swallowed him whole, keeping him safe in the carved-out space of his chest that’s been baby brother shaped and hollowed out since the day Sam was born. “Mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who left kind comments on the first part, I appreciate them all so so so much. This has been a tough fic for me to write since a lot of the feelings hit close to home.
> 
> Feel free to say hi on my [tumblr](https://kermiethefwog.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
